


Composed

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Established Relationship, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Teasing, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-08-17
Packaged: 2018-07-25 11:18:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7530652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Takami’s not grimacing in pain, isn’t frowning in discomfort; he’s biting his lip instead, his forehead creased on concentration that looks more like he’s trying not to laugh than that he’s suffering." Sakuraba finds a way to make Takami lose his usual composure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Composed

Sakuraba always gets drowsy after sex. It’s something about the combination of the physical  exertion and the all-over satisfaction and the fact that more often than not he ends up sprawled across a bed, warm and breathless and sliding into a post-orgasmic haze before he’s even managed to take a shower. Takami can usually persuade him into the relative comfort of warm water, if only for the cleanup it will save them later, but afterwards Sakuraba topples right back into Takami’s bed, tangling himself into the mess they’ve made of the sheets and only shifting to slide in closer to the other once Takami has laughed and settled himself on the other side of the mattress. Sakuraba reaches out to drape his arm around Takami’s waist, and to press his forehead against the other’s skin, and when he shuts his eyes and breathes himself into unconsciousness it’s with the glide of Takami’s fingers in his hair.

Sakuraba isn’t sure how long he sleeps. It’s only a drowse, really, tipping in and out of awareness like his mind keeps checking to see if it can go on resting at irregular intervals. The bed is warm, Takami is warmer, and the touch in Sakuraba’s hair lingers, working down to the back of his neck and sliding over the top of his head alternately. By the time Sakuraba stirs and blinks himself up into true alertness Takami’s hand has worked its way down to slide against the back of his neck and is idly tracing patterns in the dip between his shoulderblades.

“Hi,” Sakuraba attempts.

“Hey there,” Takami says while Sakuraba is still blinking his vision into focus and reorienting himself into the existence of a conscious body. When Sakuraba looks up Takami’s watching him, propped up on his elbow and smiling in that lingering soft way he does when he’s been watching Sakuraba for a while. “Are you awake?”

“Think so,” Sakuraba offers. His throat aches on a yawn, his attention sliding sideways to make space for it; once his eyes are back open Takami’s hand is in his hair again. “What time is it?”

“Just past two.” Takami’s fingers slide sideways and ruffle Sakuraba’s hair up off his scalp. “You can keep napping if you want.”

“No, I’m awake,” Sakuraba says, though he’s closing his eyes to the weight of Takami’s fingers in his hair, is ducking his head in closer against the curve of Takami’s waist just for the comfort of the closeness. Takami’s touch at his scalp is soothing, purring warmth down his spine without the edge of desire to turn it to something hot and demanding; it’s just comfort, the pleasure of closeness to layer over the lingering weight of satisfaction still in Sakuraba’s veins. Takami hums something over him, unintelligible praise or affection Sakuraba’s not sure which, and Sakuraba presses in closer to nuzzle in against the warm line of Takami’s hip.

He can feel the moment Takami stiffens, the tension that drags at him as he flinches back and away from the contact. For a moment Sakuraba thinks he’s hurt him, pushed too hard or accidentally found a half-healed bruise. “Sorry,” he blurts, tipping his head up to see Takami’s face, “Did I hurt you?” But Takami’s not grimacing in pain, isn’t frowning in discomfort; he’s biting his lip instead, his forehead creased on concentration that looks more like he’s trying not to laugh than that he’s suffering.

“Ichiro?” Sakuraba asks. “Are you--”

“ _Ah_ ,” Takami says, and he’s pushing at Sakuraba’s shoulder to urge him back and away. “Farther, you’re too close.”

It’s the strain under his voice that gives him away. There’s something very specific about the tension Sakuraba can hear in Takami’s chest, about the weird drag of the words as he gives them voice, and suddenly the odd unhurt tension in his forehead makes sense.

“Are you ticklish?” Sakuraba asks, leaning in closer to Takami’s skin again. Takami’s hand is still at his shoulder, the contact lingering from his attempt to push Sakuraba away, but he doesn’t exert any force to back up the intended shove as Sakuraba comes back in to fit his forehead against Takami’s side, to find a spot for his mouth in the soft skin just under Takami’s ribs.

“Only a little,” Takami admits. “It’s your stubble, it catches my skin when you talk.”

“Like this?” Sakuraba asks, deliberately tilting his chin up so it drags over Takami’s skin, and Takami huffs an involuntary exhale as his whole body curves in around the pressure.

“ _Ah_ ,” he gasps, his fingers catching at the back of Sakuraba’s neck. “Wait, stop, you’re--” and then Sakuraba gets traction against his ribs and catches against the curve of the lowest edge, and Takami arches, his body shuddering into a tremor of response as he chokes on what is unmistakably a giggle.

“You are _so_ ticklish,” Sakuraba grins, tilting his head up so he can see the breathless part of Takami’s lips and the strained angle of the back of his neck. “That is so _cute_.”

“It’s not,” Takami tries to protest, but Sakuraba ducks his head back down and Takami convulses again, shuddering into tension as another bubble of sound spills from his lips. His voice sounds higher than it usually does, skidding up his normal range into the breathless heights of involuntary laughter, and Sakuraba can’t stop smiling, can’t pull away from Takami’s skin.

“It is,” he says, wiggling to get his hands in under Takami’s waist too, to catch his fingers against the curve of the other’s body and press friction against him as Sakuraba slides up the bed to see Takami’s expression up-close. He’s flushed pink all across his cheeks, his lips parted on breathless inhales; he blinks hard as Sakuraba leans towards him, visibly fighting for composure, but Sakuraba shifts his fingers at Takami’s side and the focus slides away immediately, giving way to helpless movement as Takami laughs again.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Sakuraba grins, taking advantage of Takami’s distraction to push him onto his back over the sheets. Takami falls to the force and reaches out to grab at Sakuraba’s shoulder; when Sakuraba tickles him again his fingers seize into tension against the other’s skin as if he’s trying to hold himself in place. “This is seriously adorable.”

“Stop,” Takami pants, but he’s smiling, he’s starting to laugh even in the gaps between Sakuraba’s movements. “This isn’t fair.”

“It’s nice to have the upper hand,” Sakuraba tells him. “Is your neck ticklish too?”

“Oh no,” Takami manages, and Sakuraba ducks in closer to fit his mouth against the curve of Takami’s throat. Takami whines a faint note of not-quite protest, and then Sakuraba shifts to drag friction against the other’s skin and Takami shudders under him, his whole body quaking with reflexive reaction as his fingers tighten at Sakuraba’s shoulder.

“ _Haruto_ ,” Takami is gasping between bursts of giggles, his voice skipping higher with each drag of Sakuraba’s fingers at his ribs or Sakuraba’s chin against his throat. “Stop, I can’t--ah, I can’t breathe.”

“Aww,” Sakuraba says, but he pulls away and slides his hands down to still at Takami’s hips instead of fluttering at his waist. Takami is still trembling under him, his cheeks still flushed into dark color; his glasses are askew, knocked loose and off-center, and even when he reaches up to straighten them his hands are a little shaky.

“Seriously,” Sakuraba smiles at him while Takami is struggling to realign his glasses and trying to catch his breath. “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I’m just ticklish,” Takami protests, though he’s smiling, that soft, gentle expression that always touches his eyes into the brightness Sakuraba only ever sees aimed at him. “It’s not that exciting.”

“It is,” Sakuraba protests, keeping his hold on Takami’s hips as he leans in closer in pursuit of a kiss. “You’re always so composed, I never get to see you go to pieces like that.”

Takami huffs a laugh, his smile tugging up at one corner until it crinkles the very corners of his eyes. “Don’t you?” he asks, his fingers sliding into Sakuraba’s hair to steady his movement while Takami arches up off the bed to bridge the gap between them. “I think you see me lose my composure quite a lot, actually.”

“Maybe,” Sakuraba allows, smiling as Takami’s lips find his and settle into a press of heat for a lingering moment.

“Maybe you should remind yourself,” Takami suggests as they pull away, his hips tilting up off the bed towards the angle of Sakuraba’s knee between his. “If you don’t remember perfectly.”

Sakuraba’s exhale is too loud and too fast, and shaky enough on heat that any attempt at playing coy is ruined before it begins. But: “Maybe I should,” he tries anyway, letting his weight dip down over the mattress to meet the press of Takami’s bare skin and feeling the other starting to go hard against his thigh again. “I have a really bad memory.”

Takami’s smile is bright. “Clearly,” he says, and tugs Sakuraba down into another kiss.

They don’t pull away from this one for a long time.


End file.
